Free Impractical Jokes by Charlie Pickering

shifts. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the enormity of the challenge seemed to grow. While one was sawing the other would be resting in the shade and taking on fluids. My grandfather, a veteran of a world war, typhoid and open-heart surgery was an energetic worker and therefore a massive health concern to all around him.
    After some hours, lunch was served. Cut sandwiches were eaten as the job so far was discussed. There was general consensus that the job was a goddamned pain in the arse and progress decidedly tits up. The saw remained frozen a quarter of the way through the door. It was stuck and couldn’t be removed. It was like Excalibur, if Arthur had to saw through solid rock to get his sword back. Destiny be screwed, this was going to take hard work.
    Sawing continued through the afternoon and into dusk. A beer was had and sawing went on. The sun went down, the sawing continued. An ad hoc spotlight was erected, sawing continued. Some time around ten-thirty, half an inch of door fell to the ground, as did the saw and my sweat-drenched father. There was a smattering of applause from the patient but altogether over it crowd.
    My triumphant father and wheezing grandfather hoisted the conquered door aloft and headed for the toilet.
    There was some quiet chat and jokes made as the door was screwed back into place. It is the kind of talk you can imagine at sundown after the taking of Normandy. Too exhausted to speak, too relieved to not. ‘Well, we won’t be doing that again anytime soon.’
    The final hinge was attached and, with an announcement of, ‘I’ve been waiting all day for this wee,’ my father attempted to close the door. It wouldn’t budge. The harder he tried, the harder it wedged on the seagrass matting.
    My father swore. My grandfather swore. The door was inspected. They both swore. Loudly.
    One initial theory for the door not closing was that they hadn’t sawn off enough of the wood. The subsequent and significantly more correct theory was that, over the space of eleven hours, they had sawed a perfectly aligned, expertly measured, half-inch strip of wood off the top of the door, leaving the bottom intact.
    An awkward night was had by all; a meal in silence and the then-working television watched without laughter. That night, no matter how funny John Blackman’s ripostes, how suggestive Dickie Knee’s antics or how abrasive Red Symon’s barbs, Hey Hey It’s Saturday was considered neither light nor entertainment.
    It was decided that the men needed some time away from the door, so the following day was spent at the beach.
    Day three involved a lot of sawing; very little talking.
    By nightfall, the men of the house were the proud owners of one solid oak door and two half-inch strips of solid oak door. One strip was glued back onto the top of the door and the door was re-hinged. It opened. It closed.
    My dad opened and closed the door a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. And, with a call for privacy, he took one of the most hard-earned wees in history.
    The lasting memorial to three days of struggle was a line at the top of the door where the strip had been glued on again. Every time my dad sat on that toilet, it would mock him.
    The seagrass matting itself was a short-lived success. At first everyone agreed it had been worth the trouble, but three months later they changed their minds. Suzie, then aged three had woken up at the crack of dawn. Not wanting to wake anyone, she set about occupying her busy mind with household chores. She tidied up toys, folded some linen and then came to check on me in my cot. She noticed that my nappy was full and decided, having seen Mum and Dad change me countless times, she would give it a shot. Mum and Dad walked in to check on us at seven and what they saw when they opened the door was something that will stay with them for life.
    It was clear from the state of the room that Suzie had no trouble taking my nappy